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I see their curved necks through the kitchen window sailing like swans
FOUR HORSES On Thursday the farmer put four horses into the cut hay-field next to the house. Since then the days have been filled with the sheen of their brown hides racing the fence edge. Since then I see their curved necks through the kitchen window sailing like swans past the pale field. Each morning their hooves fill my open door with an urgency for something just beyond my grasp and I spend my whole day in an idiot joy writing, gardening, and looking for it under every stone. I find myself wanting to do something stupid and lovely. I find myself wanting to walk up and thank the farmer for those dark brown horses and see him stand back laughing in his grizzled and denim wonder at my innocence. I find myself wanting to run down First Street like an eight year old saying, "Hey! Come and look at the new horses in Fossek's field!" And I find myself wanting to ride into the last hours of this summer bareback and happy as the hooves of the days that drum toward me. I hear the whinny of their fenced and abandoned freedom and feel happy today in the field of my own making, writing non-stop, my head held high, ranging the boundaries of a birthright exuberance. From The House of Belonging
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